Cooking for Brothers
by Sam.J.Eller
Summary: On occasion, Sam was forced to resort to more desperate measures, in order to make Dean smile. There was nothing the brother's wouldn't do to make each other happy; and it was often the most mundane things that brought about the greatest amount of joy. One-Shot. Weechester/Teenchester. Brotherly Feels.


Note: Get it? _Cooking for Brothers_ , instead of _Cooking for Dummies_? I know, I'm hilarious. And so tired because I stayed up half the night writing this and then had to go do all my shopping today and start unpacking in my new place. (Again, I have **still** not seen the s11 finale, so please, no spoilers!)

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The fact of the matter was, Sam Winchester was a shitty cook.

He always had been and, to the best of anyone's knowledge, he always would be.

So it was totally reasonable for Dean to be surprised by the various smells of food emitting from the bunker's kitchen.

It didn't take the older man as long as usual to roll his ass out of bed, the mystery of scent tempting him to his feet.

It wasn't a good aroma per-say, but it was interesting. After-all, last time Dean checked, Sam could do little more than operate the toaster...and the kid wasn't even great at that.

Dean groaned as he stood, pulling on jeans and a sweater in a slow creaky manner. He was feeling like an old man. The hunt a couple days ago had kicked their asses, and Dean was still feeling the bruises and scrapes on his body over thirty-six hours later.

Sam had also taken quite the beating, actually the kid had come out with more bruises than Dean and an ankle that had been wrenched so severely it had called for a hospital trip and the use of a cane. The young man's face had also been the target of casper's serious anger issues.

The spirit had been taking that significant rage out on every person who dared step near its rotting remains. It was understandable that the ghost of a man was pissed that he had been murdered and left to decompose at the bottom of a ravine. But it was hardly a reason to go around killing people.

Dean cringed at the memory of the last victim. He and Sam had gone down to the ravine, searching for the spirit's remains, when they found the body of a young boy. He was dead, dried blood on the back of his head indicating that the spirit either caused him to tumble down the hill or chucked a heavy object at his skull.

It really wasn't that gruesome of a sight, not nearly as bad as some of the things Dean had seen, but for some reason he was having trouble shaking it. It could be the boy's preteen age, or how young his face had looked, even beneath the layer of blood. It could be the too-long brown hair that was mangled atop his noggin, or his skinny arms or legs.

Dean shook his head, dislodging the mental image trapped in his brain, and marched toward the kitchen, eager to uncover what his little brother was up to.

Sam had no idea what the hell he was doing.

He knew what he was _trying_ to do. He was trying to make breakfast for his big brother...but things were not going as planned.

Sam had never been much of a cook, it was always something he did as a last ditch effort to make things better for Dean.

His brother would never admit it, but the salt and burn they completed the day before last shook him up pretty good. Sam was usually the one who got torn up by the victims they couldn't save, he was usually the one who had nightmares of those same individuals, haunted by their closed eyes and colourless complexions. But this time it was Dean.

Sam knew it was because the victim was a child. The boy couldn't have been more than twelve years old. Sam had seen his brother's face pale at the sight of the thin body. He had witnessed the crack in Dean's casual facade. He had heard the gruff emotion in the older hunter's voice when he made the anonymous call to the cops about the young boy lying lifeless in the ravine.

A lot of victims of the supernatural, the ones the Winchester's couldn't save, got to Sam. Anytime there was a young blonde-haired woman, he would be plagued with nightmares, the sensitive man was even disturbed when they came across animals - particularly dogs - that had been killed by the monster of the week. Dean was often unfazed. He would be upset, but was always prompt to remind the taller man that they couldn't save everyone.

Dean's exception was children.

Sam used to wonder why, he knew the younger the life that was taken the sadder the circumstance, but it took him time to understand why his brother had such great difficult shaking the situation, why he would be so sympathetic when interviewing parents that had lost their children, why he would behave so much more intensely during cases that pertained minors.

And then one day, while Sam was just a teenager and observing how kindly and carefully Dean was speaking to woman whose son had gone missing, it clicked.

Dean sympathized with parents, because in many ways, he was one.

He knew what it was like to care for a child, he knew how innocent and vulnerable they were, he understood the importance of protecting them, and the horror of something happening to them.

After that realization, Sam had never again questioned his brother's sensitivity towards cases that involved kids.

Sam knew that Dean was still very much disturbed by the hunt, when he became short tempered. All of yesterday Sam's brother had snapped at him, any question was met with a biting sarcastic remark or an embittered silence. The youngest Winchester took no qualms with his brother's fury, knowing full well that anger was nothing more than a defense for Dean, to keep him from having to feel or deal with the hurt underneath.

Sam had been patient, attempted to convince the other man to talk, maybe share his pain, but Dean had stubbornly refused and not reacted well to any of his brother's efforts to cheer him up. So, Sam resorted to something that often helped to raise Dean's spirits, food.

The younger man had intended to go out and pick up a disturbingly greasy breakfast for his brother to enjoy, but had been unable to find the Impala's keys and didn't want to risk waking the one he knew had them. If Dean woke up angry, there would be less hope in changing his mood, it was best to start the day off right, hence the breakfast.

Unfortunately, Sam's ankle was messed up and would not cooperate long enough for him to walk anywhere to pick up food, so he had no choice but to try and make it himself.

He got up early and rifled through the kitchen, quickly realizing he had spent so little time in there that he literally had no idea where anything was. Dean had done all the food prep since they moved into the bunker, and Sam was thrilled to see that his older brother more than enjoyed that particular domestic piece of life. It wasn't a surprise, Dean had done all the cooking growing up whenever Dad wasn't around. Back then, he hadn't had the proper supplies to cook the amazing meals he did now, but even with the meagre contents of their motel kitchenettes, Dean had never failed to make do.

Sam smiled softly at the memories of their childhood, silently marvelling at how his brother managed to make mac&cheese taste amazing, even the eighth night in a row.

Sam jumped back as the grease from the pan splashed up at him, the bacon sizzling loudly. He had found it in the back of the fridge, it smelt okay so he was cooking it up. He had also found those tiny breakfast sausages his brother liked, shoved in the freezer for some reason. He planned to make eggs as well, and knowing how Dean liked them poached, he attempted it. As it turned out, poaching eggs was fucking impossible, Sam ruined three of their last five eggs just figuring that out. He had then decided on pancakes, looking up a recipe online and scouring the kitchen to see if all the ingredients could be found. Finding the proper components was only half the battle, measuring them out and putting them together was the real struggle.

For an average person it probably wasn't, but for Sam, whose knowledge of cooking was limited to heating something from a can, it was pretty damn difficult.

Dean was always gracious enough to pretend Sam's culinary creations weren't complete abominations. The younger man knew better, the only food he made that he was tempted to believe Dean actually enjoyed, was grilled cheese. He was always very generous with the cheese, which is older brother always appreciated; but more often than not the slices of bread that encased it were either soggy or burnt.

Sam shook his head in frustration with himself, frowning at the bitter aroma that found his nose. He looked between the three pans he currently had spread out on the stove top, catching sight of the sausages and the amount of steam rising off of them.

"Shit!" He cursed, using his finger to roll them over.

Dean could barely contain a laugh as he walked into the kitchen to spot his little brother in the midst of imitating Betty Crocker.

"We have utensils for that." He commented, as he watched his brother using his fingers to flip the sausages.

Apparently Sam had been so wrapped up in his domestic duties that he neglected to notice his older brother's entrance. The younger man startled, which wouldn't have been a big deal if he hadn't been precariously balanced on one leg and surrounded by scalding surfaces.

His surprised flinch cause him to knock the pan of bacon off the edge of the stove, in Sam's effort to catch it, he released his steadying hold on the counter, causing him to lose is balance.

Dean leapt forward, but his reaching fingers just barely brushed his little brother's sweatshirt as the kid dropped to the floor. The commotion ended as abruptly as it had begun. Sam sat slightly stunned on the floor, hissing as he registered the sting in this ankle.

"You okay, dude?" Dean questioned, stepping around to squat in front of his brother, careful to avoid the skillet and scattered bacon.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Sam grumbled, but the pained gasp he released as he attempted to rise, contradicted his words.

"Alright, hold up. Let me help you out there, buddy."

Dean gripped his brother's forearms to his elbows, supporting him as he tugged him to his feet.

"Where'd you put your cane?" He asked upon getting Sam back on his feet, or rather, one of his feet.

"Uuhh." Sam scanned the room, nodding toward the table when he spotted the object leaning against it.

"Oh yeah, all the way across the room, that makes sense." Dean commented sarcastically.

"Bite me." The younger man mumbled, resting his hands on the counter top to better balance himself.

"You good." Dean questioned, unwilling to release his hold until he was sure the kid wouldn't go tumbling to the floor again.

"Yup."

The older hunter nodded, and made his way across the kitchen to grab his brother's cane.

"How about you try actually using this thing, huh?" He suggested with a wink.

"I needed both my hands." Sam huffed in defense.

Dean made no further comment on the matter, knowing from experience the frustration of having your body limit you in any way.

"Well how about you go sit down and you let me take care of this." He suggested, picking the skillet up off the floor and frowning at the half-cooked strips of bacon strewn about.

"No." Sam objected, his sharp forceful tone coming as a surprise to both men.

Dean squinted at his brother, trying to figure the kid out.

"What's up with you?" He questioned, upon finding no physical clues.

Sam bit down on his lip, his gaze on the floor as he shifted position, whether out of insecurity or discomfort, Dean wasn't sure.

"I just, I want to do this." He answered softly.

Dean's forehead crinkled in confusion, his mind trying to recall the days date so he could be sure it wasn't the anniversary of something they celebrated. After checking off all the major holidays, as well as both their birthdays, and every other memorable date he could recall, Dean was still left in the dark.

"You don't have to, man. It's not a big deal." He said.

Sam shook his head.

"I'm making breakfast. I want to. So scooch out of the way before the pancakes burn." The taller man instructed, lightly nudging his brother over.

Dean shook his head in exasperation as he stepped out of the way.

Sam had gotten way too big of a share in the Winchester-stubbornness, and Dean had learned a long time ago to choose his battles wisely. Who was going to make breakfast, wasn't something he planned on wasting his time arguing over.

"The coffee should be ready." Sam announced.

Dean nodded in appreciation and shuffled his way over to fill up a cup, breathing in the scent and being thankful as hell that Sam had at least one talent in the kitchen.

He sat down at the table, sipping on the hot black beverage. Dean nearly laughed when he looked back up at his little brother. The kid looked all of five years old with his tongue trapped between his teeth while in deep concentration, only instead of doing math homework, he was flipping pancakes.

The first two flipped over fine, but he seemed to have trouble with the third, cursing as it folded in half, and trying to fix it with his finger.

"Don't burn yourself." Dean warned, not understanding why Sam kept using his fingers, when he was in a room packed full of cooking supplies.

Sam mumbled something under his breath. Dean didn't hear it, but it wasn't a stretch to assume that it was vaguely insulting.

He smirked, studying my little brother, while enjoying his coffee.

It definitely wasn't any sort of holiday, and as far as Dean knew, Sam didn't have anything to apologize for, so the reason for his newfound culinary interest was a little strange.

Unless…

"Did you scratch the Impala?" Dean blurted out.

Sam glanced up from where he was hunched over the bacon, and frowned.

"What?"

"Did you scratch her? Throw up in her? Spill your coffee on the seats?"

"No. Dude, I didn't touch the car." Sam declared, his eyebrows raised, as though Dean was the one behaving out of character.

The older man huffed, as Sam went back to cooking, and he continued to turn our current situation over in my mind, searching for some sort of explanation.

Dean kept a watchful eye on his little brother, being sure he didn't hurt himself or lose his balance again.

With nothing better to do but solve the mystery of Sam's current behaviour, Dean thought back to every other occasion where Sam had cooked for him. Not heated soup or grilled cheese, but really cooked. Luckily, the list was far from extensive.

There was that time when he was five and damn near burnt the house down trying to make a cake. It had been Dean's birthday, and he had woken up to the smell of smoke, nothing could have made him move faster (where there was smoke, there was fire, and the Winchester's history with that particular element was anything but pleasant). The kid had been standing on a chair over the counter, mixing something in a bowl, paying no mind to the smoke seeping out of the oven door. After Dean had pulled the charcoal product from the oven and tossed it into the sink, opened the windows, and fanned the smoke from the kitchen, he had stared down his tearful little brother and asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. To this day Dean could recall the look Sam gave him. The younger boy's bottom lip protruded, his puppy-dog eyes swam, as he released the smallest little sniffle, that was all it took for every ounce of Dean's anger to dissipate instantly. Sam had given a hiccupped response, explaining how it was his brother's birthday and he knew Dean was sad that Dad wasn't home, and he couldn't buy him a present, so he wanted to make him cake for breakfast. Dean had pulled his upset little brother off the chair - paying no mind to the cake mix covering him head-to-toe – and hugged him tight, whispering a soft thank you into his flour-covered hair.

Next came Sam's first attempt at making pie. He was nine at the time, and the apple pie had thankfully not smoked them out of the motel room, but it was damn near raw. The apples were crunchy and the crust was doughy. Dean struggled to recall the exact circumstance of that particular occasion. He was pretty sure it was the time he had been confined to the bed with a broken ankle and three busted ribs. He had heard the kid rustling around in the kitchen for what seemed like hours, and since Sam had already practically force-fed him soup, Dean couldn't imagine what it was he was up to. When the dessert was presented to him, he didn't care how undercooked it was, all he cared was that his little brother had spent his entire evening making something he knew Dean enjoyed. The older boy had eaten the gift with a smile, grinning wider the second he saw Sam's shy dimples from across the room.

Then there was that time the youngest Winchester made spaghetti and meatballs. He couldn't have been a day over eleven, and the meal had been very near edible. Dean struggled to recall the specifics of that occasion as well, it took me a moment or two, another few sips of coffee, before it clicked. It had been Dean's own fault. He had been snappy the whole week before. He was struggling to keep up with school and hold down the job he'd gotten at the grocery store, as well as complete all the research his dad kept calling and asking for. He arrived home from work on the Friday to find dinner set out on the table. Sam had been setting out two kinds of pop, glancing up at me as he nervously chewed on his bottom lip. Dean had been just as baffled then as he was this morning. Sam had hidden behind his hair as twitched about uneasily under his brother's gaze. He had only shrugged when Dean asked him the reasons for making dinner, and then proceeded to apologize for the poor quality of the food. The teen had told him to shut up, and eaten every scrap on his plate. Not because it was overly delicious; the noodles were over cooked, and had therefor expanded to about twice the size they should have been, the sauce was incredibly salty, and the meatballs mimicked solid chunks of coal, but he ate it all because _Sam_ had made it for him. And then Dean took them both out for ice-cream, to thank his little brother, as well as remove that salty tasted from their mouths.

Sam's next attempt at pie had the exact opposite result to his first. The crust was rock hard and the apple was practically pudding. The kid had been thirteen when he created that over-cooked monstrosity. It had been for Dean's birthday and Sam had been absolutely miserable when he presented his brother with the dessert. Dean had asked him what was up, he knew Sam was disappointed that the pie hadn't turned out the way he wanted; Sam had always demanded perfection from himself, but even he had accepted the fact that he wasn't any good in the kitchen. When Dean questioned Sam about what was bothering him – after some excessive nagging – he had given a rambled apology. He was sorry that he couldn't buy Dean a pie like he normally would have, and that he couldn't even get him a gift, but that he would as soon as had the cash. Sam spoke about how the older teen deserved a hell of a lot more than a shitty pie, after which Dean instructed him to watch his language. The elder brother had known that Sam would have purchased something if he was able, but all their money had gone towards the kid's meds. The youngest Winchester had gotten pneumonia a few weeks prior, and since the illness had hit him the strongest when he was at school, Dean wasn't given the chance to use their fake insurance cards, because the school had already informed the hospital of the Sam's real name. Needless to say, it took all the cash that both of them possessed to pay for the hospital stay and the medication Sam needed to recover. Their father was off the grid again, and Dean had taken on a second job to help play for everything. Sam had fought him hard on the matter of employment, insisting that he get his own job so that he could pay for his own meds. Dean had refused. The teen was still shaking and hacking, coughing up the phlegm that had settled in his chest. Sam wasn't even strong enough to stay awake for more than a few hours, he wasn't even able to go to school yet, there was no way in hell Dean was going to let him get a job. He had put a stop to the kid's endless apologies. Telling him that he had done nothing wrong, and that the apple pie Sam made him was the best damn gift he could have given him. Sam didn't buy it, he was too old for his brother's fibs, but Dean's joy did manage to make the kid a lot less miserable. Dean was even able to get Sam to crack a smile a few times throughout the night.

The last time Dean could remember Sam cooking, really cooking, was when he was seventeen. He made parmesan chicken. It was a little soggy, and the cheese he put on top of it hadn't fully melted, but those were the only flaws that could be found in the other-wise magnificent meal. Dean had assumed that the motel feast was a show of Sam's appreciation. He had spent the majority of the day arguing with their father, who had taken off a few hours before dinner. John had wanted to head out of town, to a hunt a few states over, but Sam was only three weeks away from graduation high school, and was desperate to be able to walk across the stage in front of people he had actually known for more than five minutes. Naturally, John had not seen the importance as to where the ceremony took place, he only thought it mattered that it did in fact take place at all. Dean, however, understood his little brother. He understood why Sam's face fell more than usual when their father declared that they were packing up. Dean understood why the teen hesitantly approached the older man, requesting an extended stay. And even though Dean understood why John denied the soft request, he knew that it wasn't fair to his little brother. Sam had worked his ass off in school, pulling straight A's, even when he was being uprooted and dragged across the country every other week. Sam had made a couple friends in town, and he deserved to graduate with them. He had earned the right to graduate where he wanted and when he wanted, with whoever the fuck he wanted.

So, that day Dean did something he seldom did, he fought with their dad. It had been a long battle, full of guilt trips about dying victims, but eventually he had won, or - more accurately - John had given up, packed his things, and stormed out of the motel. Sam had sat dejectedly at the table, remaining silent throughout the majority of the argument, except for a quick moment, once their father truly began to shout, when he had gently tugged on Dean's sleeve and told him that it was okay. The older brother had simply shook his head back and forth and continued on. Because it hadn't been okay. Sam wasn't asking for too much, and he deserved so much more than he ever requested. Dean knew that they couldn't always give Sam what he wanted, it just wasn't practical or possible, but whenever they could, he never understood why they wouldn't.

When he had asked Sam, "Why parmesan chicken?"

The teen had simply shrugged and said that Dean had ordered it last time they went out to some place nice – which had been nearly three years earlier – and that he had really liked it. The kid had spent hours, hunting down the recipe and ingredients, just to create a meal for his big brother to enjoy. And, damn, had Dean ever, but not nearly as much as he enjoyed the content grin on his kid brother's face.

Dean sat, thinking over each of those events, trying desperately to think of what they all had in common. The only thing he could come up with, was that they were all in an effort to cheer him up. Dean had been miserable on his ninth birthday, because his father had not appeared home like he promised that he would. He had been absolutely despondent at thirteen when he was band from all things fun and confined to that lumpy motel bed until he was healed. At fifteen, when Sam made spaghetti and meatballs, Dean had been so completely worn out from working, and had spent all his extra time snapping at his kid brother, taking all his frustrations out on the poor kid. The time Sam had pneumonia, while Dean was seventeen, the older teen was stressed out; worried about finances and Sam's health, probably so much so that he had been unintentionally adding to Sam's level of guilt. Dean had thought that at twenty-one, when he had fought their father for Sam's sake, that the meal had been in appreciation, but he could recall how upset he had been. Dean had always hated fighting with Dad, and Sam knew as much. No, the meal had not been so much in gratitude, as it had been to cheer him up.

That was what each occasion had in common, Sam trying to make things better for Dean, trying to bring him out of whatever funk he had been in.

And that was what the kid was trying to do now.

Sam could see his brother's brain working a mile a minute, and he was pretty sure he knew what it was working on. He really wished that eventually a day would come where he could do something nice for Dean, without having the older man question his motives.

Sam began dividing the food on to plates, cringing at the state of the meal, but knowing there was really no way for him to make it any better. He coated Dean's pancakes in syrup, with the hopes that it would disguise the burnt parts. He did a quick clean up, knowing how particular Dean had become about his kitchen, how neat and tidy the elder hunter liked it to be.

Sam stood for a moment at the counter, staring down discouragingly at the plates.

The entire meal was a mess, hell, the entire idea was a mess.

Sam didn't know what he ever bothered with cooking. How would a plate of shitty food make his brother any more content? If anything it should have made him even more upset.

Sam hated not knowing how to make things better for Dean. His helplessness was the only reason he had ever tried his hand at cooking ever before. It had always been a last-ditch attempt to make Dean happy. It had been what the younger Winchester resorted to when he had not money and nothing else to offer.

It was nothing compared to everything Dean always did for Sam, all the ways he made Sam's life so much better than he ever thought it could be.

Realistically, Sam's cooking should never have been enough for Dean.

But it had been on a number of occasions.

There were several times in the past when Dean had been hurt, upset, or angry about something. Whether it was the absence of their father, or an injury, or the unfair stresses of life that were placed on shoulders far too young to be expected to carry such a strain, or an undesired conflict with a hard-headed father; whatever the reason, Sam had somehow been able to bring Dean a degree of joy or peace, or _something_ , with his awful cooking.

The younger man was completely unsure about whether the old method could still yield success.

But for now, while his gimp ankle confined him to the bunker, breakfast was all Sam had to offer. And as he made his way over to his big brother, he prayed to whoever was listening, that – at the very least – his cooking failure would at least bring a smile to his brother's face.

"Here."

Dean almost startled at the plate that was placed in front of him. He had gotten lost in his memories and failed to see that Sam had completed breakfast.

He looked down and smiled.

The pancakes were too dark on one side, and too light on the other. The sausages were blacker than was normal. The pieces of bacon varied between incredible shriveled, to completely floppy.

Some things never changed.

"Was I that bad?" He questioned softly, once Sam was seated across the table.

Sam appeared confused for a moment, before surprise crossed his face, which was quickly wiped for a more neutral expression.

"I don't know what you mean –

"Sam." Dean interrupted, giving his brother a knowing look, prompting a truthful answer.

The younger man twitched a smile, before shrugging slightly, giving Dean all the answer he required.

"Sorry." The eldest Winchester sighed. Frustrated with himself, for only now realizing how testy he had been as of late. Now seeing so clearly in his mind all the times he had snapped at Sam for no reason at all, over the past few days.

"Don't be a moron, Dean. You're allowed to be upset." Sam replied, his hazel eyes meeting the green ones, compassion just pouring out of them.

"Doesn't mean I have to take it all out on you." Dean grumbled, not willing to forgive himself as easily as Sam always seemed to.

"You weren't." The taller man dismissed.

They both knew that it was a lie, but Dean let it go. He would never contradict Sam's willingness to forgive him, no matter how unworthy he felt.

"You don't always have to make it better for me, you know?" Dean said after a few bites of food, wanting Sam to understand that his emotional state was not the younger brother's responsibility, and it was not Sam's job to get Dean back on track.

Sam levelled the older man with a serious look, one of the most serious Dean had seen come from him in quite a while. Dean knew that whatever Sam said next, he would mean with all of his heart. Dean could see the truth of Sam's thoughts on his face.

"That's what brothers do." He declared.

Those damn puppy-dog eyes were seeping gratefulness and love, more gratefulness than Dean could ever hope to deserve, and more love than he knew what to do with.

The shorter man averted his gaze, swallowing down the lump in his throat, and taking a few more bites of his breakfast, before even attempting to speak again.

"Damn right, Sammy." He stated gruffly, giving Sam's arm a quick squeeze, before focusing back on the food, pretending that nothing emotional had occurred.

"This is delicious." Dean announced through a mouthful of sausage.

Sam rolled his eyes and ducked his head as he picked at his meal, but Dean didn't fail to see a brilliant smile light the younger man's face, his dimples displaying his joy.

Dean just didn't get it.

Even after so many years.

After all the mistakes that had been made.

After all they had been through.

After all the pain and the hurt and the garbage.

Sam was still trying to make things better for Dean.

Even when he was unfairly placed at the receiving end of Dean's misery, Sam still worked to make his brother feel better, to make him happy.

He still did something he hated, just to bring Dean joy.

Sam sacrificed his time and energy for him, risked injury and disappointment, solely for the chance that the end product would please him in some way.

With all that was going on in the world, Sam still cared about how Dean was feeling.

The youngest Winchester still strived to make the elder smile

Dean's kid still gave him everything that he could.

Like he said before, some things never changed.

 **The End**

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Note: Did you like it? I found an old doc. that had the first few lines written on it, and decided to finish it up instead of just deleting it. I really hope someone liked it, or else I stayed up until 4am for nothing. ;) Thanks so much for reading! - Sam


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